


Cold Steel

by chameleontattoos



Series: The Catriona Cousland Chronicles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Origins Quest - A Paragon of Her Kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleontattoos/pseuds/chameleontattoos
Summary: Catriona and company have left Orzammar behind them, and Alistair has a question about why her vote went to Bhelen. He asks his question, and it backfires severely.Told from Zevran's perspective.





	Cold Steel

They’re just over a day clear of Orzammar when Alistair gives voice to a question that Zevran has been watching him chew on since before they had left the underground city.

He could have picked a better time to ask it, perhaps waited a few more days. Their dashing leader is still holding a great deal of tension over her shoulders. She will not appreciate the intrusion.

“I’ve been trying to puzzle it out, but I’m still not sure I understand why you decided that Bhelen was our man.”

Catriona purses her lips, whetstone and dagger forgotten in her lap. “What’s there to misunderstand? It was either him or Harrowmont, and Harrowmont’s election promises were so… backward.”

“I just think – With what Bhelen’s done, and all. Don't you think it's a bit… hypocritical? To have picked…” Alistair falters. It appears that he realises – too late, now, but there is nothing to be done – that he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Hypocritical how?” Catriona returns. Her eyes are cold, and growing colder still as the seconds tick by and Alistair only blinks at her.

Leliana looks between them nervously, glancing at Zevran. He shakes his head, trying to keep the motion as minimal as possible. Intervening now might make it worse.

He's never seen her like this. Hot anger he's used to. She is hot-blooded, the lady Cousland. But this – this is cold, quiet fury.

He has no doubt that she knows exactly what the man is referring to. He has put together some of the pieces for himself; one of them being why she had tossed and turned all of the first night they were in Orzammar. Another, how her flint and her tinderbox had been placed atop Harrowmont's forged papers. A third, the way she removed her signet ring and rolled it in her fingers when she thought nobody was looking. And in the end, she had made her choice.

Alistair swallows hard. “U-uh… Maybe I shouldn't have –”

“No, please.” Catriona makes a _go ahead_ gesture with both hands. “Do explain why I'm _a bit of a hypocrite,_ Alistair.”

“Only that – well, we all heard the stories about Bhelen, right?” He looks over at Zevran, desperate for some backup. “Right?”

Zevran just shrugs, looking away. He locks eyes with Leliana. “This is a discussion that I have no stake in,” he says.

“The stories.” Catriona leans forward, lacing her fingers together. “I presume you're talking about how he killed his brother and framed his other brother for the murder? To clear his way to the throne? Those stories?”

“Yes, those.” Alistair croaks.

“Right, right.”

Leliana makes herself scarce, leaving Zevran to spectate on his own. She's wise to do so, he thinks. He'd do the same, but he for once cannot be sure how this will play out. He does not know what Catriona will do with cold anger. If anyone has half a chance of pulling Catriona off Alistair – if it comes to that – it's Zevran.

“What does Bhelen have to do with my apparent hypocrisy?” she is saying. “I'm dying to know.”

Alistair’s eyes widen. He seems to have figured out for himself that she has known all along exactly what he's trying to say.

She lifts her chin. It is a clear challenge. She is _daring_ him to come out with it; there will be no escaping from her now.

The air thrums with tension.

“W-well, he did all those things, and, um – I just figured, with your family history, you wouldn't – wouldn't have wanted to –”

“Stop hedging and just say it, Alistair.” Catriona snaps. “Or are you set on playing the coward?”

Brasca. Well, poking the bear is a sure way to get him to bite back.

Alistair's eyes blaze. “He _murdered his family_ , Cat. Why would you vouch for him when the same thing happened to yours?”

“You think I hadn't thought about that?” Catriona retorts. “I'm not an idiot. You know, I haven't slept through the night since we arrived in Orzammar, because of exactly this. And I did seriously consider backing Harrowmont, because my conscience told me he was the only option. _To the void with the dwarves,_ I wanted to say, _I don’t want a kin-killer as my ally._ I was physically sick after giving Bhelen the crown, knowing that I was endorsing the same sort of underhandedness that Howe –” her lips pinch into a thin line. “I trusted you to understand that I did what I did, despite all of the reasons I didn’t want to, because I – we – can’t afford to be selfish.” She inhales sharply, then exhales. When she speaks again, her voice is deceptively calm. “I suppose my trusting in you was a mistake. Silly me.”

He has no response to that.

She sheathes her dagger and stands, flexing her fingers; her hands curl into fists, and then uncurl. They have a noticeable shake. Her mabari is on his feet before she even whistles, and he is close at her heels as she turns with all the grace of a dancer and crosses the campsite, disappearing into the forest.

There is a long moment of silence. It feels like minutes, although it is barely half of one.

Oghren is first to break it. He scoffs, takes a swig from his foul-smelling canteen, and says, “Well, I barely know the girl, and even I can see you royally turfed that one, Warden.”

“That is one way to put it.” Leliana murmurs.

Zevran’s quiet snort draws Alistair’s attention. “ _You_ could have said something,” he says irritably. He sounds like a man who has been wronged. It does him no favours.

Zevran shrugs. “Probably. But it is as I said: it was not my argument to have.”

┈     ┈     ┈     ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟     ┈     ┈     ┈

When Catriona returns from her jaunt into the forest, she appears to be in better spirits. She waves a greeting to Leliana, standing on watch, and ducks into her tent, leaving her mabari outside. She does not emerge again. Zevran would put it down to fatigue, if not for the way Razor bares his teeth just slightly whenever Alistair strays too close. A subtle threat, but the man has the good sense to heed it.

The situation does not improve. For nearly two weeks, Catriona’s responses to Alistair’s general existence are abrasive at best. Zevran does his best to talk her down, but she is quite firm in her opinion of the other Warden as, quote, _A prat._ She cannot be reasoned with; she is simply too angry.

The difference between boiling anger and frigid fury, it seems, is that the former burns itself out quickly, like a cottage built of parchment, whereas the latter is a wall of solid, immovable ice.

Zevran is quietly glad, for the sake of the Wardens’ mission, that they are only travelling. It is hard to negotiate a treaty when you are like to disagree with your own comrade out of spite.

It is Morrigan who at last puts her foot down. “I have had _quite_ enough of this,” she snaps, thumping the base of her staff into the hard-packed dirt. The sky is just beginning to darken; her face is cast half in shadow. She looks rather menacing.

The trigger had been Alistair sidling out of Catriona’s path like a baby crab by the seaside, trying to avoid being pecked to pieces by a gull.

“You.” The witch swings her staff in Catriona’s direction, waving the twisted end in her face. She has to lean back to avoid being swatted on the nose. “You, who was chosen to lead this merry band by virtue of your ability to make level-headed decisions, are acting like a child. And _you_.” Ignoring the expression of betrayal on the Warden’s face, she changes direction, butting Alistair in the shoulder with the staff and sending small sparks into the air. “ _You_ ought to learn that ‘tis better to offer apology when the offended party is yet offended than not apologise at all.” She crosses her arms. “I thought that perhaps the pair of you might reconcile your differences on your own, but it seems that you are both as independent as suckling babes.”

“He insulted me.” Catriona bites back. “Belittled me!”

“And you deserved to wallow in angered self-pity for it, certainly.” Morrigan raises an eyebrow. “For a day. Perhaps two.” She meets Catriona’s irritated glare with a cool stare of her own. “We can scarce afford to engage in such long-winded infighting. You spoke of trust, and yet you have not given him the scarcest chance to mend his mistake.”

Alistair’s jaw works, as if he has something that he wishes to say but is fighting himself to get the words out.

“Morrigan does have a point,” he mutters grudgingly. He is not accustomed to _agreeing_ with the witch, after all. He turns to Catriona, shoulders drawn in slightly as though he expects her to bite his head off for _daring_ to address her so directly. “If you’d just stop blocking me out and let me apologise –”

Catriona does not let him finish. “If you had half a brain, we wouldn’t even –”

“ _Enough_.” Morrigan plants her staff in the ground beside her and, hands free, crosses her arms. The staff stays upright. “You share the blame for this nonsense. Stop throwing it around as though ‘tis a hot coal.”

Catriona glares at Morrigan. Alistair stares at his feet. Neither of them say anything more.

“Well!” Leliana says loudly. “I think we all need to find other places to be. Right now.”

“I have to go take a piss, anyway.” Oghren grunts.

Zevran does not go far. He makes himself comfortable on some furs in front of his tent: enough of a distance away to give some semblance of privacy, but still within range of his keen hearing.

“I’m sorry for making assumptions.” Alistair says at length. “I should have thought the situation through more than I did. And I should have trusted your judgement.” His fingers drum nervously on his armoured knees. The quiet _tingtingting_ just barely reaches Zevran’s ears. “You haven’t steered us wrong yet. I should have known – no, I _do_ know better.”

Catriona drags her hands over her face. “I know you do. That’s why – well, _part_ of why it made me so angry. It felt like you were choosing not to listen.” She has her eyes fixed on the fire.

“What about the… other part?” Alistair turns towards her slightly, seemingly emboldened by her actually speaking to him properly at last. He watches her face.

“I think that was at myself.” She sounds rueful. “Because – you were right about it all, really. I was trying to repress everything. Believe me, the candidate who arranged for the deaths of people who trusted him so that he’d be closer to the seat of power was not the one I would have voted in, were we in any other set of circumstances.”

“But you did it anyway.” Alistair ventures.

Catriona nods. “For Ferelden.”

 _Tingtingting_. “The dwarves are better off in the long term, with Bhelen on the throne. At least, that’s what I gathered from listening to that incredibly persistent town crier.”

Catriona snorts quietly. “Prince Bhelen pisses liquid gold!” She says, mimicking the tone of the dwarf in question. “Bottles it and donates it to charity!”

Alistair smiles slightly, but his eyes are serious. “I mean it, Cat. After what you said the other week, I’d been thinking, and… You made a good call. The Prince was a right snake,” he wrinkles his nose, “But he was miles better than Old Man Oppress-The-Poor.”

Catriona sighs, and it sounds like weeks’ worth of tension leaves her body along with the air in her lungs. “I had no clue how badly I needed to hear that from you until you said it.”

Zevran rises to his feet and slips out of camp. They will be fine without him there to watch them now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
